


Afterglow

by eiraparr8



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiraparr8/pseuds/eiraparr8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't react well to the first glass of moon tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterglow

 

She doesn’t react well to the first glass of moon tea. Immediately retching up the tea, her entire body trembles as she leans over, the contents of her stomach splattering into the basin. His nose wrinkles-- the lingering sour stench of vomit will require some story-- illness, perhaps, a stomach ailment. Possibly her moonblood-- that’s affected her before, but her handmaids would surely see right through that even if it prompted other servants to ask fewer questions. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs as she collapses against him, her back against his chest. She’d have fallen completely if he hadn’t been holding her, his arms wrapped around her waist. She half turns but doesn’t meet his gaze as she repeats, “I’m sorry.”

He’s not sure which of them is more disappointed by the break in her facade; after so many months of controlled expressions and careful lies, she’s back to that girl who was handed to him on the ship, pale and exhausted and anxious, looking like both a little girl and an old woman all at once. 

Petyr smoothes her hair, his fingers brushing her forehead, and plants a delicate kiss there. “It happens, sweetling. Don’t dwell on it.”

But it bothers her, he can tell, and she’s frustrated by not being able to hide that fact from him. She’s become quiet good at concealing her emotions-- helped by her days at court-- even with him (especially from him, he sometimes thinks). Last night and this morning have been the longest she’s managed to let her guard down (have her guard taken down) and he wonders if that frightens her, if it makes her think of the girl she once was. 

She twists his tunic with her fingers, her entire body curling into his, seeking comfort, warmth, _him_. Even last night, after he collapsed on top of her, she had hesitated before settling against his back, as if she wanted to return to her cold, lonely bed. That hesitation affected him more than he’d care to admit, made him wonder if the look in her eyes had been real or just his own foolish imagination. 

Now, though, she seems bare and vulnerable, her eyes closing as he rubs her back. She sighs quietly and seems as if she would climb inside his skin. “It happens to most,” he tells her and her eyes spring open. 

“But I-- it won’t happen to me, not again.” The words would be more convincing if her voice hadn’t been shaking and she grips his hand, lacing her fingers with his. 

Briefly, he considers this; it’s risky, of course, fucking her while her husband’s away (neither of them consider the option otherwise, to step away from each other), but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if she became pregnant, not now, not when it’s still close enough to the Young Falcon’s departure. For a moment he thinks of the child they would have together, a child with his blood and Sansa’s features, his eyes and her hair. Sansa would love a child, he thinks, despite what she’s confessed late at night, in a voice so soft he could barely hear, that she used to dream of a family but now has only fears, certain that they’ll suffer, knowing how easily a family can be destroyed.  A child, he thinks as he strokes her stomach, _my child_. 

But then he thinks of Sansa-- his creation, he sometimes thinks. How in her face he no longer sees only Cat (he never saw Ned Stark), but more of himself, his ability to slip between personas, his calculation. His smile. They work well with her innate abilities to charm and misdirect with courtesy, and sometimes at dinners he simply watches her as she moves about the room, winning everyone over, gaining their trust, their loyalty, their utter devotion. She sometimes catches his eyes then and smiles, a smile that’s different from the ones she gives others. A real smile, or what’s become her real smile. 

“Do you want to try again?” he asks her, even as he half wonders what he wants her response to be. 

“Yes,” she answers after the briefest of pauses. 

The moon tea stays down this time, though Sansa remains pale and unwell. He makes her drink water and nibble on a roll, both of which she pushes away almost immediately, reaching for him instead. He’s surprised by the naked need in her eyes and though part of him is annoyed by that need (surely by now she should hide her feelings better), a secret part of him is gratified and pleased. 

“Come here,” he murmurs and pulls her to the bed-- her bed. He curls behind her and holds her tightly, stroking her stomach in loose circles. She sighs, with pleasure this time, her legs intertwining with his. 

He shouldn’t linger, not with the number of plans that still need to be carried out, the pawns that need to be dealt with, but as Sansa grabs hold of his hand, Petyr stays. This, he thinks as he plants lazy kisses on her neck, is better than watching her stomach grow, better than holding a child. 

He holds her closer and smiles. 


End file.
